


Fallout

by Grundy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Age, Gen, Mithrim, Nolofinwions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 15:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17024913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: Actions have consequences. Fingon is just beginning to find out about them.





	Fallout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sindefara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sindefara/gifts).



> Happy holidays, Sindefara! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> -Your secret Santa

Findekano tried not to stomp as he entered the tent currently serving as his family’s dining hall.

Aikanaro had forcibly kicked him out of Maitimo’s tent entirely this morning, on the grounds that he damn well needed to bathe at least once every few days and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take a meal that wasn’t on a tray balanced on his knees.

They knew Maitimo was no longer at death’s door; if his condition changed, it was a matter of minutes for a runner to find him anywhere in the camp. That still didn’t make him feel any better about being anywhere else.

He’s also not sure when Aiko, one of his youngest cousins, had been appointed his keeper.

Sure, neither of the cousins older than him are exactly available at the moment – actually, any of Maitimo’s brothers coming to this side of the lake is probably a terrible idea right now –  but there’s always Turvo and Ingo…

“I don’t suppose this means you’ve remembered that you have duties to attend to and mean to return to them?”

As if the thought had conjured him up, Turukano appeared in the entrance, pulling the flaps shut behind him to give them whatever privacy the canvas might afford.

_Nothing_ in this camp was truly private. Privacy was another luxury they’d discarded along the way.

His younger brother’s nose wrinkled as he took in Findekano’s current state.

“Faugh, you stink! Aiko said he made you change, but he neglected to mention you needed to be told to wash.”

“I’ve had other things on my mind,” Findekano said, trying to keep his voice light, and apparently failing.

“You’ve had _him_ on your mind, you mean,” Turvo snorted. “Now that you know he will survive, perhaps you could give a thought to the rest of our people – the ones who look to you for protection and did _not_ leave you behind to die?”

He hasn’t had a chance to ask Maitimo what he’d been thinking, but Findekano can’t believe that he’d been left behind to die. Left behind for a misguided version of safekeeping perhaps, but how was Maitimo to know anyone would think the Ice was a good plan?

Besides, that wasn’t what Turvo was so furious about. Not really.

“He isn’t personally responsible for Elenwë,” Findekano pointed out tiredly. “He didn’t kill her, Turvo, and deep down you know that.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” Turvo spat. “He was supposed to be the prince of all the Noldor, not just those who were in his father’s host. He knew our father swore to follow his. What choice did he think Father would have – or those of us who marched with him, who promised loyalty to him and to our king?”

To that, Findekano had no answer.

There was no answer to be had, since the only thing Maitimo has said to him in Beleriand was a plea to kill him. He’d ignored that, of course. He was confident once free and safe, Maitimo would feel otherwise. His certainty on that has been somewhat shaken in light of the all the damage so obvious on Maitimo’s scarred and emaciated body, not to mention the grim looks of the Sindar healers doing their best for him.

“Fine, it’s his fault!” Findekano snapped, what little patience and self-control he had evaporating. “As I’ve seen him a bit more recently than you, I can tell you that whatever crimes you lay at his feet, he’s been sufficiently punished for them!”

Turukano glared back.

“I doubt it. He’s alive. He’ll recover. And if he’s short a hand, that’s not Moringotto’s doing, is it?”

Findekano jumped to his feet.  He’s never hit his younger brother in his life, but Turvo’s not a child anymore and he’s goading him on a point no one in their right mind would touch right now.

“Enough!”

Irissë came charging in, shattering any pretense that it was just the two of them.

“Stop it!” she hissed. “Do you think Atto needs to hear his sons are at each other’s throats on top of all his other worries?”

“He’s lost as much as you have, Turvo,” Findekano couldn’t keep himself from saying. “Maybe more. He didn’t just lose a brother, he lost a father as well.”

_And likely considerably more in Angband, but I don’t think he’d care to have me bring that up. Not to any whose respect he’ll need as king._

Turukano laughed.

“By all means, convey my sympathies, but losing a father is not the same as losing a mate, and you bloody well ought to know it, dearest brother. Or do you seriously expect me to believe you actually had a _plan_ when you went charging off to our Enemy’s territory with little more than the clothes on your back and a few weapons?”

Irissë looked ready to throw the contents of the nearest beverage pitcher at them – and as bitterly cold as it was outside, the pitcher was liable to contain something hot. Findekano decided it was wiser not to test her.

“Have it your way, Turvo. But go have it somewhere else. I’m too tired to fight about it right now.”

“As you will,” his brother snapped. “But know this-the only thing that stops me wishing the same fate as mine on him is that _you_ are the one who holds his heart, and I have no wish to lose another brother.”

The silent _you bloody idiot_ was fierce enough that despite being rather indifferent at osanwë, Findekano could still hear it and flinched.

Aryo’s death was still a sore spot for all of them.

They use the comings and goings of Rana to mark time now, for they are not sure yet that Vasa has any such cycles. Those who chart the skies closely argued that it did, and that there had been several of them between their arrival at Mithrim and now, but Rana’s cycles were clearer and easier to observe. There have been fifty-three of those since that first battle – barely any time at all by the standards they had used in Tirion.

Irissë clouted Turvo as hard as she could, smack in the middle of his chest. He stumbled backwards.

“Out,” she hissed. “Out or I _will_ tell Atto what you’ve been saying.”

“I’ll tell him myself,” Turvo said matter of factly. “I doubt it will come as any great surprise to him. I’m hardly the person who thinks the worst of our noble king at the moment – just ask any of those who are the only ones of their family to survive to see the rising of the sun _their_ opinions of the House of Fëanaro or of Nelyafinwë Maitimo.”

With that, Turukano stalked out.

Irissë sighed and sank into the seat across the table from him.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, Finno, but he’s right – a lot of people aren’t going to see what he’s lost. They’re only going to see that Maitimo’s still alive and still expects the people he abandoned to follow him as king now that they’re here.”

“Maitimo doesn’t expect a damned thing at the minute,” Findekano growled.

“Eat,” Irissë ordered with a frown, pushing the bread board and a platter of sliced meat at him. “You can grump at me all you like once you’ve actually got some food in you.”


End file.
